A Wedding, Then a Marriage
by Baby Girl's a Queen
Summary: Cleon's marriage to Ermialine. Because too many people see this marriage as an eventual success, and family is always more complicated than happiness. This story may be read as a quasi-sequal to 'A Treaty Between Friends'.
1. The Soldier on the Ridge

The Soldier on the Ridge

"The marriage of convenience has this to recommend it: we are better judges of convenience than we are of love." ~Mignon McLaughlin, The Neurotic's Notebook, 1960

The rain fell in slow heavy drops, soaking into his charger's mane then dripping from his flanks to join the rivulets in the mud. From the top of this ridge Cleon could normally see his fief stretch before him. The fields closest to the river carefully divided into a jigsaw of narrow strips of barley and wheat. For every two strips in use there would be one strip at rest. At this time of year the crops would have been harvested, a five o'clock shadow glowing gold on the fields; the barns would have been full to bursting, gain saved for the harsh months to come. Further up were the fields for livestock. These fields were bigger and would have been dotted with silvery dams in the late afternoon sun. Atop it all, looking over the farmland and the village, the Castle Kennan's spires reached into the sky, a castle for romance far from the borders and battlefields. A home from his childhood.

Cleon dismounted to descend the old, curling road. The rain had washed away the gravel to leave thick mud, dribbling down the hill like molasses and Cleon would rather walk in wet boots than risk laming Bison – the behemoth horse and he had travelled a long way. This road would normally travel down through the village before going back up to the grand gates of the castle. But the village is flooded and a new path has been made.

"My Lord!" Men Cleon remembers as mere boys call out to him, they are all within the castle walls. Safe.

"Tomlin! Good to see you well. How is the butcher?"

"You are speaking to the Master Butcher, but old Matchek is keeping an eye on me. Send your family my best, and come visit us soon – I have a new wife I want you to meet!"

The butcher's apprentice had been one of Cleon's closest childhood friends. And now he had married the girl he loved. The sight of the cheerful refugee camp that had sprung up in the main courtyard cut down Cleon's fast jealousy. His shoulders flexed and rolled beneath a maroon tunic and a straw dress shirt, darkened by the ever-falling rain. Duty. Duty.

"I received your letter." Perhaps it was an unusually curt greeting from a young knight to his mother, but Cleon was not expected to play the loving son in front of the lady's maids and pageboys. Private conversation here would always be halted.

Cleon's mother sat diminutive in her throne; her frail figure had been sapped of its vibrancy by the events of a lifetime – this latest flood, the struggle to try and run a fief under a long line of debts, the degradation of crawling to filthy bankers, and the deaths, all lined up, her father, her infant son, her husband. And Cleon was going to try and argue the case of love with such desolation?

"I have arranged your marriage to Ermelian." His mother was tired.

Identical grey eyes met across the great hall – a room built in the old style: a stormy stone floor, walls made of great slabs of stones, matched so well in size and cut they must have been brothers in the local quarry, slate ceilings imported from the western provinces and grand marble arches. Four shades of grey. Hundreds of shades of grey in the smoke stains and the wear and water marks. But it was all grey. It was all loss.

Cleon could see how the conversation would play out if he argued with his little mother. When he mentioned marriage to Kel his mother would look about the hall in confusion, take his sister's arm as she made her way to window and tears would drip from her eyes as she said no. Mourn his loss with him so sincerely it would be impossible to rage at her, to fight as his blood frothed in his veins.

"I will propose formally when we next meet."

Cleon had met Ermelian before, when he was a naive little boy convinced he could marry his calf love and solve the fief's problems with the tip of his sword. The audience had a distinctly different flavour with the weight of a ring in his pocket. The words he would say slowly revolving in his head – none of the panic that seized a man in a love match, the answer was secure – taking on new forms to flatter the prospective bride, to retain some truth, to suite tradition. The motions in his mind almost sickening, but still, she was a pretty girl. A pretty little convent girl. He was lucky.

Cleon looked almost comical sitting in the ladies parlour at Aldron: his knees pulled up into his chest as he sat on the low divan, the knee protector's of his dress armour almost grazing his exposed throat and his helmet clumsy in his hands. And his armour! Even his dress armour, burnished to show a perfect reflection and decorated with the archaic pattern of laurel leaves that had always been his family's emblem, was out of place here. Too much a celebration of violence to enter this room swathed in rose silk and snowy muslin. And yet, his father had proposed to his mother wearing this armour. Probably on their second meeting. Probably accompanied by Cleon's grandmothers. Probably in a room not unlike this one.

Cleon's mother and Ermelian's had left the young couple a little space as they chattered on their own. At moments like these Cleon often felt that the young ladies at the convent were trained to speak to knights – to act naturally and gracefully, to always seem entertained and given a list of comments they could use in every situation – while knight's were left to flounder, captivated by the titivating young women and unable to speak a word.

"Your armour is so beautiful, so refined! And still undamaged even through the fighting at the front. Why, it almost seems you haven't been to battle at all." Cleon could tell Ermelian was teasing only to invite him to speak, to allow him to tell some story of valour. It had always been so easy to speak candidly with Kel about such moments.

"It is the family dress armour." Cleon knew that. Ermelian knew that. The mothers by the window, listening intently as they feigned a conversation, knew that. Cleon's difficulty was neither anxiety nor temporary paralysis caused by the girlish bodyline of his betrothed.

It was forcing himself to go ahead, to suffocate his last chance at marriage to the woman he loved.

He could see Ermelian was about to give up conversation making, tired of holding this performance with such a woeful player.

"It's the same armour my father wore when he proposed to my mother and they grew to love each other very much." Cleon took a knee. "He asked for her hand in marriage with this ring and I am hoping that, if you agree to marry me, we will share the same love and devotion. I do promise to always protect you and to always cherish you. Please become my wife."

It wasn't the speech girls dreamt about but Cleon didn't know that speech.

He had once thought of stirring speeches: the careful speech explaining to Inness exactly why he was receiving letters from Kel, begging to be allowed private correspondence with his knightmaster's fourteen year old sister. The passionate speech he would recite lifelessly, in a cold sweat, asking for Kel's hand that he never finished writing. The gloating speech to the cocky Domitan of Masbolle he had finished writing. Countless love letters. Unsent.

Ermelian hadn't answered his question. But the mother's were congratulating him. Ermelian's father and younger sisters were in the room. Beating him on the back. Jumping onto the good furniture to kiss his cheek. Buzzing already about white dresses, ice sculptures and bridesmaids. Ermelian still hadn't answered his question.

But the marriage of convenience did not require the bride's approval. Cleon was suddenly ashamed.

"You hate girls like her." Celina always made an entrance, slamming into Cleon's room, yanking the curtains open to reveal the sodden landscape, and let the light in, "She's all 'Yes, my Lord' and eyes on the floor and … meek. What happened to strong women?"

"I've been fighting Scanrans all winter, maybe a meek little bride is exactly what I need. An obedient little wife waiting for me in an orderly house with a hot dinner and eyes that never quite meet mine." Celina never knew where Cleon got a reputation for an even temper, when you knew the right buttons to push… "That's what men want!"

"And that's why you've holed yourself away in your room while you should be celebrating your engagement. You're moping because you're going to be so busy being happy together for the rest of your lives."

"You think you're such a catch, strutting through the palace in breaches so you can show all manor of men your legs, playing at being a soldier, riding with your legs apart like the whore you are. You think men like it when ladies take over their roles? The Queen's Rider's are a joke, an escape for those girls that are too liberal to make a good match."

Tears welled in four matching eyes, forced back by the hard battle training that valued balls over sentimentality. Their 'chats' had always been like this: they forced each other to swallow the bitter poison, forced their passionate psyche to crawl and grovel on the worn stone floor, destroy their own blood, before they would show mercy and nurse the poor sick hope to life.

"I'm sorry. It's not true." Cleon caved first; though chivalry was long dead between the siblings, he could not see his big sister, grown small, cry. "Never let anyone tell you it's true. You're beautiful and spirited and no man could ever be good enough for you."

"Who was she?" Celina pushed her advantage, practicing meek, "Even now you could have brought her back. Mother can never say no to you."

"She wasn't really a that sort of girl. You know I've always had a thing for strong women. And she's tall, and glorious. I can really relate to her, you know, tell her just about anything. Except that I want to marry her and I can never love another now that I've held her. I was warned to stay away from poetry. She's brilliant with children too. All us boys used to call her mother, before I realised what a knockout she was.

"But I was never burdened with the fantasy that she would be waiting with the children for me to come home from war."

Celina was staring at him now, gaping, "You fell for Sir Keladry of Mindelan? I've seen that girl tilt – she'd have you flat on your back after the first run if you told her. Young knights do not get away smearing her honour unscathed!"

It wasn't that Celina doubted her brother had been in love with the Lady Knight, she was probably just to his taste: tall, strong and just progressive enough to let him believe he might get a chance. Celina simply doubted that Sir Keladry would look twice at her brother after riding with the rather dashing officers of the King's Own for the last four years. But that is one of the joys of younger brothers: the women that fall for them generally haven't seen the slow, painful forging of their merits.

"I had more of a chance than you give me credit for! If it weren't for these Gods forsaken floods I would have made an offer soon. After the war perhaps." Cleon was fading into thought now, "I haven't even held her properly in so long… And now I'm being forced to sit in the state rooms at Aldron and all I want is to be covered in mud on the front line."

"And I suppose you haven't even thought about how that's going to affect Ermelian? You think she hasn't considered her options in the past two seasons at court?" Celina smiled as she saw her little brother faulter, "Oh, you really think she's been sitting in her room thinking of you since this betrothal was announced! Imagining your great feats as she danced with all the young men of the court. Think, dunderhead, you're not the only one crying because your favourite toy's been taken."

The idea of Ermelian losing her own sweetheart hit Cleon like a blunt mace to the stomach, "Why'd she agree to this then? What's in this for her? Why is it so important she marries me?"


	2. The Pre-Nuptual Agreement

The Pre-Nuptial Agreement

"Be still sad heart and cease repining;

Behind the clouds the sun is shining" – Longfellow

Ermelian sat alone in the lady's domain: a silver backed hairbrush and a polished hand mirror set down amongst the clutter of perfumes and face paints on her dressing table. The last cluttered space in a boxed away room. She's finished braiding her hair for bed now and yet she continues smearing the maquillage across her face: thick, red lines smudging her lips, eye shadow in blue on the left and green on the right and tracks of charcoal dripping down her cheeks.

Outside it's raining again, the sound muffling her snuffles from the lady's maids still busy in the hall. So Ermelian is free to remember Cleon's proposal. His eyes slowly taking in her small figure, glancing over her sweet face and somehow finding it wanting. Perhaps he could see through her practiced charade. Gods knew she saw through his crude attempt at sincerity, saw the girl he wished she was and the life he kept dreaming of. Saw a letter, penned neatly on thick velum by the shaking hands of his elderly mother, had destroyed him inside.

Two naïve hearts violated by a marriage of convenience.

But it is clear, even through Ermelian's bloodshot eyes, Cleon is not ashamed of his grief. He flaunts it. His mother has not humiliated him by dragging him out of the court eye to be holed away on a backward estate in the lowlands while it rains. His romance is over but that is all he has lost. It's just love. No talk of honour defiled, a family ruined, of dirt and sin.

Ermelian's tears fell thick as her mother raged – pulled her own hair from it's roots and sent spittle flying as she screamed – and her father refused to see her. Until she fell on the floor, sent down by remorse and shame.

"Shush, my darling," Her mother had cooed then, "It can be fixed, possum, it can be hidden." She patted Ermelian's head and dried her cheeks, "My girl has such a pretty face, so young.

"You were always meant for Cleon: such a nice boy and with Celina running about with a sword, in breeches, with the Queen's Ladies they're hardly going to be finicky about these kinds of things. It'll all be swept under the rug. It will all be forgotten, my darling baby." She said.

Her mother promised and so it came to be. Ermelian threw herself onto her childhood bed, too short now and narrower than the lady's bed she had kept at the palace. But comfortable, like the smell of hot toast, the feel of her favourite teddy's matted fur and all the simplicity of innocence. A woman, she had thrown innocence from herself in rage and passion and so now she would be torn from simplicity, her last night in her nursery bedroom.

What was Cleon's bed like? Long probably, for he was tall and would want to protect his feet from the draft in Castle Kennan, all that stone and there was always a draft, hopefully soft. And smelling like a man.

Had Cleon taken his love to that bed? Ermelian didn't know. Led her in there slowly, leaving the door ajar slightly to assure her it was fine to be alone together. The pair drawing close together as he strummed a dulcimer and whispered sweet ballads in her ears, taking her hands and teaching her to pluck the strings, his arm around her waist now. Setting the instrument aside to hold her closer, kissing her neck and singing sweetly that he loved her. Pulling his tunic off with ease and tugging gracefully on the ribbons of her corset, all skill and practiced finesse. Hands everywhere making breath come quick and chests heave. Moans and kisses and whimpers.

And suddenly it's not Cleon she's imagining. It's Arran's floppy brown hair, his slant pale body and courtier's foppish clothes and silken tongue. Always murmuring honeyed words that came to nothing when she needed solid promises and loving vows fulfilled.

Ermelian knows Cleon would not woo a lady with cunning words and calculated manoeuvres. He's all muscle bound valour and steadfast virtue and unruly red curls. He's stiff with her still, as they meet to finalise wedding plans like guest lists and the removal of all Ermelian's belongings to a bedroom she has never seen. Yet sometimes, the light takes his eye.

When they had fist begun their meetings, just days after the proposal, "If this wedding did not have to be so soon, if it were not so contrived, who would you be inviting?" Ermelian's voice takes on that trained lilt that made her the belle of her debutante year.

"My page friends, I suppose, Sir Inness of course, some of the men I met up north last year. Just some of the blokes still tied up at the moment. I might consider crossing my sister off the list…"

Ermelian giggles perfectly, "And your best man?"

"Neal." Cleon pauses and then realises that Ermelian was looking for more than a name, she'd probably never even met Neal, "Sir Nealan, I should say now, was a page a couple of years below me, but he started old. He was good to talk to, with father gone, um, he was good to talk to." Cleon coloured slightly and Ermelian enjoyed watching him blush, knowing for just a moment his guard had faltered. And Ermelian felt she could fairly well fill in the rest of that sentence.

They had laughed sometimes, too, and that gave Ermelian the most hope. There was no honourable way out of this marriage for her. Her family would save Kennan but Cleon was her personal saviour. The most innocuous things – overhearing the cook's bawdy jokes as they sat at the back of the kitchen, at the practical jokes of the young guardsmen of Kennan, often with her nephews.

'He'd be a good father.' The thought flits into Ermelian's head gently, slowly, just brushing it's wings against her consciousness. But the children she imagines for him have nothing of herself – they are miniature redheaded, rosy cheeked giants; boys playing at heroic battle and tall, confident girls who know their duty to their family and the realm. Cleon would not approve of the mouse-ish child she had been or the flighty lady she had become. He was not tempted by her girlish giggles, did not understand the subtle, suggestive gestures of the fan or appreciate her small waist. Ermelian had no doubts she was pretty. A success story of the convent. But she feared she was not matched to Cleon. This marriage would fail.

Ermelian slept fitfully that night, the eve of her wedding, on the cusp of a new adult life. The last night of childhood.


	3. The Wedding

The Wedding

The tragedy of sexual intercourse is the perpetual virginity of the soul. ~William B. Yeats

One of the joys, or perhaps disappointments, of an arranged marriage is that the bridegroom need not be nervous. He does not break into a cold sweat as the minutes waiting for the bride glide past, though he smiles when the double doors open to reveal a mirage dressed in silk and lace he fails to beam, the family claps as the he presses his lips swiftly to hers but it is the bride rather than her family softly weeping now.

Ermelian stood resplendent in a white meringue dress she loved – she had designed the gown herself, spent the past week with her sister sewing on lace and making adjustments so that the train fell just so – and Cleon simply couldn't understand how she had made it so puffy. He could admire how the corseted top defined her small waist and brought attention to her breasts, rising above the bodice and falling again like half-moons. Ermelian had insisted on a tiara and full veil for her last day as her father's princess and appreciated the drama as her father lifted it to kiss her goodbye. A private moment on display.

The ceremony was to be traditional. The Goddess' priestess and the priest of Mithros stood hand in hand at the alter, sang the hymns, and poured libations to the Gods before the awkward couple, standing exposed at the front of the temple, were mentioned. But Cleon understood why Ermelian had pressed for this ceremony rather than the single priest bonding them in the castle hall. The voices rang out sweetly, with passion and more faith in love than Cleon could remember. The awe of the Gods he had felt as a boy was here in their voices, in the congregation behind them, in the red and blue light from the Rose window shining on the alter and in Ermelian's hand. Awe he had not felt since meeting the Kraken and going to war just to stay alive.

And suddenly the priestess was asking Cleon to promise his life, "… do you vow to protect her from the fray, shield her from harm, provide for her needs, respect her and honour her all your life? Do you take her as your wife?"

"I Do." Cleon was calm. Cleon was confident. For once someone had spelt out what was expected in this whole mess, and it was something he could do. Something he could promise and keep.

The priest of Mythros voice was stern as his eyes stared into Ermelian, "Do you accept Cleon of Kennan? Do you vow to always obey your husband, to respect him and remain always faithful, to be his comfort, soothing him? Will you bend your will to his and uphold his authority? Do you honour him in service all your life?"

Ermelian had shrunk inside her dress but she forced out the whisper, "i do."

Cleon had faltered during the speech, shocked by the subjugation of women in marriage after years watching Kel succeed in combat, relying on the riders in battle and looking up to the King's Champion. But the service continued. Blessings and prayers that now felt tainted, an acrid taste rising in his mouth and pricking his eyes. The priestess slid gold bands onto their fingers and bound their hands with a ceremonial red ribbon.

"With this kiss your marriage is sealed."

Cleon suddenly appreciated just how puffy Ermelian's dress was. He set his hands on her waist and leant forward, not quite reaching her face. The crowd began to titter. It had been a long service. Cleon blushed as he thought of the audience.

"Just kiss me." It was almost a hiss under the breath, a plea for help, for release. So he took her waist in his big hands again and lifted her small frame up to him. Pressing her crinoline against his thighs, causing it to puff out behind her, pressing his strong forearms into the small of her back and kissing her once. Softly. Swiftly.

And champagne reigned. Fell from the sky; splattered across good silk stockings; trickled down flesh; flowing down the throats of the inexperienced until laughter bubbled forth. Laughter at slurred speeches, stumbled dances and overt fondling. Laughter for laughter's sake.

A traditional service was followed by a traditional reception, and Aldron had provided. The bride's maids were drunk. The groomsmen were taking advantage. The dowagers, rigid as always, had turned a blind eye to the revelry. The serving maids had been pulled onto the dance floor and plied with spirits, the orchestra debased with requests for all the cheap, fast dances enjoyed in the shadiest of establishments and the camps of way.

Cleon was drunk. He was drunk as he cut the wedding cake. Cherry cake with white icing. He smeared it across Ermelian's face and laughed as he did it. She laughed too. Took the cake in her clean white gloves and launched it at his face. A food fight in a bubble. Sweet alcohol that enhanced emotion. Enhanced relief.

Big hands took Ermelian's waist for a second time, smearing cake across her hips and feeling out the boning of her corset. Their second dance as husband and wife and it was not so genteel. Ermelian pressed her body against Cleon's, wrapping one hand in his tunic and the other around another flute of champagne. Cleon looked down at her half-moon breasts, shining golden in the hot light from the torches, was tempted by icing that had dripped there.

"I love you." It was whispered urgently as kisses were pressed down her neck, causing her to swallow too much bubbly alcohol and drop her glass to the rushes lining the floor. "I love you." Cleon continued to taste her sweet perfumed skin.

The steward of Kennan, Cleon's stand in best man, found them like that: clinging to each other, whispering, sloppy and indiscreet. Moments of passion are so rarely attractive to those forced to look on.

Tapping Cleon firmly on the shoulder, then forcefully disentangling him, the steward announced, "The wedded couple will now retire with their attendants."

Cleon was doused in cold water, quickly changed into a white nightshirt and left in his mother's bedroom, the master bedroom, his bedroom. The affect less sobering than confusing. A boy left cold and alone in his mother's bed. A man awaiting his wife.

Ermelian was changed by her mother into the white nightgown made for the occasion. Her hair was combed, her face washed and scent applied to her wrists and the base of her throat. Ermelian's mother squeezed her shoulders once and kissed twice, whispering goodbyes that Ermelian thought unnecessary but caused her eyes to water nonetheless.

With a final kiss, a final goodbye, she was nudged inside, while family members, friends and attendants gathered outside. Some still carrying the fine crystal glasses to help them listen at the keyhole.

Cleon looked at the girl he had just married and felt the nerves run down his spine. He reached for the port his mother kept always on her bureau and poured out two tumblers. Ermelian walked towards the bed, taking small steps, and Cleon noticed how restrictive the long silk nightgown was, wondered crudely how he would spread her legs. Passing the smaller measure of port to her as she clambered onto the high bed, he ran his hand up her arm. From her wrist to her delicate shoulders, down her back to the curve of her waist. He quickly downed the port.

Cleon took a deep breath and prayed his voice wouldn't crack, "I've never done this before. I don't know what to do."

Ermelian shifted closer to him on the bed, smoothing the silk over her thighs and then reaching up to fiddle with the laces on Cleon's night shirt. Never quite meeting his eyes, "You never took her to bed?"

"You think I would dishonour her that? Throw her reputation to the court dogs for my own selfish wants?" Ermelian drew back at his acerbic tone and Cleon consciously missed the ladylike fingers that had been tracing patterns across his chest. He looked away to avoid her eyes, "You would have preferred I had experience."

"You would prefer I had none." Ermelian did not try to recapture Cleon's attention with her quiet response but his eyes snapped to hers and his large hand reached out to grasp her knee.

"You had a sweetheart?" Ermelian couldn't read the desperate hope mixed with defeat in Cleon's question. She had been expecting rage rather than, "Why didn't you marry?"

The question struck Ermelian like a blow. A blow she had no defense for, that she knew she deserved and must accept, "I had a court scandal."

With that bitter tone stuck in her eye she fed Cleon her port and pushed him back onto the bed. Kissed him and removed her nightgown. And they both did their duty with the sad, continuing knowledge that what they did was duty.

The onlookers were satisfied that night.


	4. Run

Run

We thought we were running away from the grownups, and now we are the grownups. – Margaret Atwood

Kennan is awash with thick, soft mud. From the Keep, Cleon can see the flood waters slowly recede, leaving a carpet of fertile river soil. The scene is not picture-pretty as the golden wheat fields and browned off livestock runs he remembers from his boyhood, but it seems to him that this is a happy mud. He has spent his days pushing the mud out of cottages and off the lower roads with the men and women of Kennan and his new bride. He relishes the backbreaking, exhaustingly honourable work.

Ermelian opens up to him in the late afternoons, as she pushes a wooden broom through the sludge her barriers break down and she talks to him as a human being. They have even struck up a friendship in all this work; a friendship Cleon secretly believes makes going to bed even more awkward. He has learnt some of her dreams, fished out the story of her court scandal and underplayed the depth of his romance with Keladry of Mindelan (the same censored version he had told Inness when his knight master had asked how Cleon's courtship with his baby sister was going). Ermelian has even proven herself as a mathematician, organising her dowry to pay Kennan's debt, insisting bullheadedly that she has every right to sell the jewellery her grandmother left her. Cleon always feels the need to kiss her when she's sitting with the account books in front of her. Account books he would have had to prize from his mother's cold dead fingers, Ermelian had demanded in the archly commanding tone he has only ever seen a beautiful lady master.

The letter came after just over a month of married life. When the strong new shoots of wheat and barley were pushing through the mud and Cleon was just beginning to think they might be able to collect a late harvest, if the frost didn't bite too soon. The messenger wore the colours of the king, a palace boy too young for Cleon to know, he delivered his letter and rode on to the next fief without waiting for lunch.

Ermelian was with him in the field, separating the hay she had bought into pieces as he had taught her and throwing it out to the gathering goats and sheep. She wiped the sweat from her brow, smearing it with dirt and dust, and leant against him to read the brief missive from the King. He had two weeks to return to his post at the front.

"So soon…" Ermelian's breath came out as a sigh and Cleon expected her to continue.

"I can only play at being a simple farmer for so long. The King payed to train me and now he may demand service. In this, of all wars, he needs knights willing to go face the machines." Cleon thought he might kiss her then, but instead pocketed the letter and returned to tearing apart the hay. He spoke again with his back to his wife, "I'll have to leave tomorrow, it's a two week trip."

That night Cleon made love to his wife, to his friend. He kissed her lips and whispered, more to himself than to her that he would be coming home soon. Breathed that he was coming home to her as he died inside her and lay still in her arms. Watching as her chest rose and fell and she fell into a soft, satisfied sleep. The fear of riding to war never quite left him at night, not since his father had ridden away and returned on his shield in the days Cleon could not remember but dreamt of frequently. He tucked Ermelian's gentle, pliable body against his chest and breathed in the smell of her hair.

Cleon left with the sunrise; snuck out of the bed Ermelian was still sleeping in and rode up to the top of the ridge. Kennan had transformed since he had ridden in just over a month ago. Much was still left to be done. Wholesome work that would make Ermelian as much part of Kennan as any villager as she worked alongside her new neighbours. Cleon realised that by the time he next returned she would probably seem more a part of Kennan than he often felt.

The ride to the front was long and Cleon was forced to bypass Corus altogether in order to make it to Giantkiller within his two weeks grace from the King. He had considered going via Mindelan and collecting his orders from the coast but decided before he hit the north that he would rather stand before Raoul of Goldenlake than Kelady's brothers after his rather sudden marriage. They would insinuate accusations and he couldn't bear to admit that he had been forced to end his courtship with their sister because his fief was failing. So he stood in front of the Giant Killer himself, surprised that they were now of a height, and he was able to look Sir Raoul in the eye.

Cleon forced himself to hold that eye contact as he passed the older knight the royal summons and announced, "Sir Raoul, I have been instructed that I will receive orders to re-join the fighting from you."

"Yes, I have them here." Raoul went to his desk to search through a pile of notes, "Though I was expecting you would have made yourself known at Mindelan and collected your orders from Mindelan… here we are… you're going east, leading three squads, one of veterans and two of recruits, due to leave from here in two weeks." Raoul looked up at Cleon before dismissing the younger man, "One of my clerks will find you and provide you with all necessary details tomorrow."

Cleon was relieved that Sir Raoul of Goldenlake had decided that they would remain friendly and professional. If Cleon were honest with himself, he would admit that the man was far more intimidating when he had been courting his squire.

Some letters from his page friends were found in amongst the documents that were delivered to Cleon the next morning. Cleon left that for last as he read through the lists of men he would be leading to the temporary army base on the front line in the east, instructions to lead the men directly there, information on the temporary fort and its commander, a knight ten years older than Cleon that he thought he had met during his squire years with Sir Inness and the last two reports from that area. The number of metal-men attacking the area was alarming, but Cleon put it from his mind as he opened the letter from Neal.

_Dear Cleon,_

_As always, I hope my letter finds you well, although I'm sorry that it probably means your stuck back up here with us. The weather down at Kennan was undoubtedly better than it has been up here. I'm not complaining about my duty in any way, but I have spent the past month curing sniffles and delivering babies and I'm sure it could have been done just as easily somewhere nice and warm. _

_Never mind all that, I forget myself, because I meant to write to congratulate you on your marriage. So congratulations, even if your mood last time we spoke suggested you would not appreciate the congratulations. At any rate, I am so jealous that my congratulations are only barely sincere. I was meant to be married before any of you little boys. It is rather unfortunate that I was called away so soon after being knighted. Are you aware that in peacetime many green knights take a year off to go and 'find themselves'? Alanna, of course went and brought back the two great jewels of our kingdom, the Queen and the Dominion Jewel, but I know exactly where I would like to 'find myself'. _

_I don't suppose His Majesty would give me leave to visit Yuki if I described my tears as a flood? I'm sorry to trivialise like that but I am aware that you said all was fine last time you wrote me. I suppose not anyway, as I am always called a whinger when compared to His Highness, Prince Roald. I say I am far more of a Romantic and people turn up their nose as if the royal romance is the only one worth following. _

_All is going well here at Haven. We've only been here a month and a half at present but building is all going very well. Kel is doing fabulously as commander. I know none of our other friends will mention her but I've decided that you simply must learn to deal with hearing about her. She is the youngest knight to be given command in this war so far and she's already set up duty rosters and put herself on all of them (you know how mother is, and you should have seen her face when the carpenters refused to let her near a hammer). _

_Merric is here with us, too, he's in charge of defence and, despite a rather desperate need for more squads if we are ever to face action, is really proving himself. None of these hardened convict squads have guessed that most of his dislike for his betrothed stems from the fact that she giggles at him when he blushes and stutters as he tries to talk to her. The convict squads were in the most appalling state when they first arrived, they were only just being kept alive down in those mines. Still makes me shudder, but they're in good spirits here, they respect Merric (probably because in this cold his ears are yet to turn the same colour as his hair) and they're completely loyal to Kel. _

The rest of Neal's letter followed much the same pattern falling into a draft of Neal's most recent sonnet on Yuki's grace and beauty that Cleon had to admit was a huge improvement on his early poetry. But Cleon found himself reading those paragraphs about Kel's new command over again, almost surprised that his new friendship, his more-than-friendship, with Ermelian had not eclipsed his feelings for Kel. Feelings that now felt more like a curiosity he couldn't let go of than infatuation he remembered feeling.

Most of Cleon's time on the front line was spent waiting and training, staying in a constant state of readiness. It soon became the kind of tense routine that he had become used to fighting in the north as a squire. He became friends with the squads he was leading and friendly with his commanding officer. Most of the men were older than him, and it didn't take him long to forget that he was now a married man, the lord of his own fief and no longer a green knight.

The men he led were a mix of rough and ready soldiers that had been serving since the immortals war and new recruits with varying levels of training. Cleon quickly established a rigorous training schedule that even Lord Wyldon would have been proud of to bring the new recruits up to speed, working as small units to complete drills designed to take down the metal men. Discipline and anxiety meant that everyone improved quickly.

Rotations meant that Cleon's squads spent two weeks on an extended patrol picking up raiding parties and one week on guard at the fort, that rarely saw any action. Everyone sent east understood their assignment: the temporary fort was not a target for Maggur, nor would he attempt access to Tortal so close to the boarder with Tussaine, but any squads that crept through in the east would prove dangerous. The men bonded quickly during patrol and relaxed, as much as possible on the front lines of a major war, while at the fort. The fort lacked the discipline held at Mastiff or Giantkiller. It was filled with the type of women that follow soldiers to war and the mess hall regularly felt more like a friendly lower city pub than a military institution. Cleon found himself bluffing his way through bawdy conversations again.

Battle, when it hit, brought the taste of bile back to Cleon's mouth. The skirmishes facing those automaton war machines were the worst, as Cleon's men were often injured – three of his men had been killed, though that was lower than it would have been if not for the drills and the new chain lined nets that were now issued – and terror gripped even the most experienced soldiers.

After the monster was destroyed, Cleon and his men had seconds to collect themselves before the Scanran raiding party would surge forward. If Cleon was most fearful of the automaton, he was most disgusted by battle against the frenzied Scanrans. They often came out of the trees shirtless, frothing at the mouth. It was an impressive spectacle, but when they met the Tortallan's superior training and numbers, they were slaughtered like rabid dogs. They rushed under the feet of Bison, Cleon's warhorse, and were trampled. They bared their chests to make an almighty swing of their axe and Cleon's sword darted in to rip a hole from their stomach to their chest. Cleon was a man before he realised he was sickened by fighting like this. A man with a duty to protect Tortall and service owed to the King that had trained a boy to become a killer. No matter how he sharpened his sword, it could not move smoothly through the deep flesh of a man's torso. His axe would jam in the chest after he forced it down, smashing a man's clavicle.

At the end of a skirmish like that they would leave the enemy dead for the circling stormwings, send their dead and wounded back to the fort, and continue patrolling.

When they reached the end of a patrol like that one, they would crawl to the mess hall. Drink until they were able to laugh and let the women tell them they were heroes. Only then would Cleon be able to visit the wounded, often repeating the same words that had lifted him, and remind them that he expected them back at training as soon as possible, ready for the next patrol run.

But they were not always attacked. And the winter was blessfully quiet.


	5. Deception for Solace

Deception for Solace

The moment we break faith with one another, the sea engulfs us and the light goes out. ~ James Baldwin

She is everything Ermelian will never be. Anna of wherever-she-is-right-now. Anna of the Temporary Defensive Fort. She smiled at Cleon sweetly as she brought him his first drink and sashayed through the rest of his men, still dirty sweaty from patrol, handing out big cay mugs of warm beer and cider.

Cleon knows she is a favourite amongst his men, has joined in conversations about her sea of wavy blonde hair that hangs down to her waist in interwoven braids, her pale skin and the rose pink accents that the cockier men say taste sweet as buttermilk when they're kissed. As Cleon watches her he realises she looks more Scanran than many of the young men they have been fighting against since the snow's first thaw.

The last two weeks of patrol have been brutal. Cleon is grateful that he will not have to visit the infirmary tonight as the healers have informed him that the five men sent home wounded after a clash with raiding parties on the second day of riding had been discharged and would probably be in the mess hall tonight. The graves could be visited tomorrow.

Cleon called for another drink and Anna brought it over, bantering with men as she brought it to him. Despite having always believed that civilians had no place on a front line fort such as this, he had always had a soft spot for Anna. She was tall, strong and she seemed like she would just as uncomfortable in a parlour as he was. He had thought at first that she reminded him of Kel, and that had probably sparked his curiosity about her, but he soon realised how different she was.

Anna certainly wasn't a riddle that needed solving. She tumbled onto the bench next to Cleon, still carrying two frothy steins of larger, "Love, you needn't wave your hand like an over-eager boy at lessons every time you need a fresh drink. With that ginger mop I reckon I'd be able to spot you in amongst all this muck even if you weren't going on seven feet tall."

Cleon chuckled, happy she would sit with him a while as she smelt a good sight better than any of the men he'd been on patrol with. He decided to attempt some of Neal's charm and see what gossip she'd spill, "I feel like a boy at lessons when I see you Anna, you've all the sweetness of morning and bright as a pin to boot. Now you're here you'll have to stay and teach me my letters."

Anna giggled, "You'd better drink that beer before your silver tongue falls out of your head, milord. I know full well all you young knights got all of your lessons in gossip and girls by running around the palace and learning from our handsome King himself." Anna paused to poke Cleon lightly in the chest, "Then you think you can come up north and charm the knickers off any of the boondock girls you take a fancy to. Well to that I say, you can pull your head back in, drink up and at least tell me some heroic stories from your adventures in the lap of luxury if I'm going to gracing you with my company."

Cleon laughed outright at this, enjoying Anna's replying grin more than knew he should and launched into a tale about Prince Roald's first (utterly disastrous) flirtations with the beautiful Yamani princess.

Cleon was not drunk when he invited Anna back to his rooms that night. He always thought that was important, when he recalled the event. It was a decision made by a sober mind. A desperate man, willing to cling onto any happy daydream that would take it away from the faces of the three young men that had died under Cleon's command and the countless he had killed.

Undressing Anna felt a lot like undressing Kel had felt – hurried and somehow happening without Cleon having anticipated it. He was kissing Anna's chapped lips as she ran strong hands over his chest. Moments later her fingernails were trailing lightly over his bare skin, causing his muscles to tense. Cleon's lips broke with Anna's as he scrambled to pull her dress over her head, revealing supple limbs and milky skin flushed pink.

Cleon kissed down past Anna's earlobes and, for a moment, forgot.

The drug didn't last long. Those young faces rushed back as Cleon rolled away from Anna, his breath easing as the feeling of guilt leaked in. His pretty wife's face joining that of Alex, the butcher's son who Cleon had always doubted was old enough to enlist; Joss, who imagined romance into Cleon's marriage and teased his commanding officer with the arrival of any letter from home; Scifleet, whose little children had sweetly posted their favourite toys to the front line to comfort their father. Three men had been betrayed because eight years of Cleon's training held firm when he was called upon to stand and fight. Ermelian had been betrayed because he could not be the man he had been trained to be, to leave those bodies in the Black God's peaceful realms.

Cleon stood and pulled on his breeches and shirt before looking back to Anna, lying at ease on his bed.

"Don't go out just yet. It's cold outside, but it's warm in bed with me."

Cleon sat on the edge of the bed, reaching a hand out to grasp Anna's calf reassuringly, though it felt more an act than his brash confidence ever had. He did not feel awkward bedding Anna, but nor did he feel tender. Somehow, through the creeping feelings of guilt, Cleon knew he must hide the encroaching hardness that was developing.

He spoke softly, "I'm just going out for some air. You should get some sleep, keep your face the prettiest in camp."

Cleon bent down and brushed his dry lips against hers, stood again and fetched coins from his purse to leave on the mantle. He was unsure if he was glad or ashamed that he knew the going rate by heart. He felt wrong to be doing this in his own rooms, sneaking out of his own rooms. Cleon didn't know when he had become a man ashamed of himself.

The men on the wall did not question Cleon's late night stroll, they would not have been interested in what he had perceived as a scandal. He had heard other men say it, after one sickening act or another, after killing a man or handing a boy over to Tortall's spymasters as playthings until they spilled every secret they knew, 'The cost of war.' And it is why in every generation of Tortallan men there are many who are trapped within themselves, unable to confront the savage side of themselves.

The soldiers' graveyard is lit up by the light of the moon and stars from Cleon's vantage point on the wall. In the past year it has grown considerably, but Cleon is still able to make out the three fresh graves marked by rough headstones. They stopped holding funerals very early on. Boarder patrols could not be abandoned for the amount of time it would take to properly honour the dead.

Cleon wonders how Kel's chivalry is holding up under the injustice of refugee children being kept on the front line, if Neal's sarcasm will harden to cruelty after failing to treat enough dying soldiers, if Owen's fervour for justice has died after confrontation with the reality of war. Cleon thinks of Kel especially and wishes he had the strength of character and self-control she embodied as an eleven year old, alone in the palace.

Anna no longer reminds him of Kel, their height now the only similarity he can find between the two women. He realises, as he sees her fetching drinks for the men again the next night, that she is opportunistic in a way that belies cold instinct for profit, for survival, that many merchants would envy. But she is also kind where she needn't be and Cleon feels that perhaps, if she was offered the privileges that his own social station offered, perhaps she would be more likely to be Ermelian's ally than Kel's.

He visits Anna again after particularly gruesome patrols, taking comfort from the knowledge of another's body that he never really achieved after a month with Ermelian. And feeling the lights in his eyes go out.

_This chapter comes with some homework and some questions. The homework, first, is to compare the propaganda-like war sonnet of Rupert Brooke with any of the war sonnets of Siegfried Sassoon or Wilfred Owen. The question is: How do you feel active service affects Kel's friends?_

_Siegried Sassoon, "On Passing the New Menin Gate", "Remorse"_

_Wilfred Owen, "Anthem for Doomed Youth", "The End", "With an Identity Disc"_

_Rupert Brooke, "The Soldier"_


	6. Sowing and Reaping

Sowing and Reaping

"_If the wind will not serve, take to the oars." _

_Destitutus ventis, remos adhibe. – Latin proverb._

Ermelian woke up alone, stretching out in the big bed before she realised with a shudder of nerves that she was now alone in a strange fief. The dawn light lit the large master bedroom and a cooling breeze rustled the bed hangings in Kennan colours. Ermelian knew her maid would be in soon, so resolved to dress quickly in her work clothes and avoid explaining yet again that she would not be wearing a gown as it was inappropriate for field work.

Ermelian had been surprised by how quickly she took to the physical labour. She remained weaker than the villagers, and the work continued to exhaust her, even after a month of experience, but she felt anything would be preferable to sitting alone with her mother in law on the day Cleon was returning to war. Ermelian had begun the work desperate to impress Cleon, to show that she could be more than the drawing room ornament he originally took her as. Desperate not be ignored on a large lonely estate while Cleon enjoyed the season in Corus. She had come to understand his devotion to duty – the unwavering duty he felt to all of these tenants he had barely seen over the past 10 years, the almost resigned duty he felt for her and the love he felt for his mover and older sister.

Dressed in a rough tunic and some breeches Cleon had owned as a boy, Ermelian felt very much the imposter. She had been accepted here as the Lord's wife, but she was not sure that acceptance would continue to be extended to her now he was gone, especially as she would now need one of the men to help her lift. Ermelian remembered her years at the convent, the training the priestesses had drummed into the girls until each of them was able to stand in the gaze of the court, judged and measured by every man, mother and competing lady, and descend the stair with a grace born of confidence. Ermelian approached Tomlin, who was handing out stiff bristled brooms.

"We weren't expecting to see you this morning, milady." Despite his words, Tomlin smiled at her warmly and handed her broom, "Would it please you to work with the women clearing the mud from the lower houses?"

Ermelian nodded and made her way to the group of women Tomlin had indicated. She realised that she had made the right decision today, regardless of her motivations. She could tell that she had moved up in Tomlin's esteem, and that this would be invaluable in her role as Lady of the Estate, effectively running the castle, village and farmlands while Cleon was at war.

Dinner that night was a changed affair. Without Cleon in the house, Lady Vivian and Celina chose eat informally, even carving from the leg of roasted lamb themselves as they had sent the kitchen maids and footmen to join the relief effort after lunch. It was with that news that Ermelian first saw any sign of the progressive in Lady Vivian, though it was not the overt and friendly progression she was used to in the palace. Lady Vivian saw need and disregarded tradition in order to rectify that need.

Ermelian was grateful to have Celina around Castle Kennan. Celina was four years her senior, so they had not been close at the convent but she found herself liking the older girl more and more as autumn melted into winter. It was not until the depths of winter, when boredom was at a premium within Castle Kennan, even with many families now living within the keep as they had when Celina first arrived, that Celina decided to broach the subject of Cleon.

"Has my brother been writing to you? I know I've had a spate of letters during the winter for the past couple of years, the brute only ever thinks of me when he is stuck inside, but this year there's just been the monthly letters mother reads out at dinner so we know he's okay up there."

Ermelian flushed, "I usually receive a letter in response to my report on the accounts, in with the family letter Lady Vivian reads at dinner." She was embarrassed that as yet Cleon had made no attempt to confide in his wife as he had for years with his sister.

Celina took her blush entirely the wrong way, "Love letters! Does he send you love letters?" Ermelian had never seen a girl look so eager.

"No, no… nothing like that. We only ever write about the estate. They have been very short letters recently. He approves all of my work on the accounts." Ermelian paused, "I don't even know how I'd start t write a love letter to my husband."

"But… I've seen men hanging off your every word, every flip of your fan, at palace balls. You must have been sent plenty of love letters then." Celina could not be called a flirt but, like her brother, she had a penchant for the dramatic when she fell in love. Unlike her brother, she fell in and out of love several times per party – Cleon had always compared her to Neal for this, though Celina was considerably luckier in love, often receiving love letters, tokens and sketches from men begging her to be their escort to the next popular party.

"Well, yes. But they were from and to the kind of men who were still at court while every warrior in the kingdom was being marched north to face Scanra. I can't imagine Cleon really appreciating the kind of shallow emotions we wrote about, and I don't think he'd even know what I was talking about if I promised to flutter my fan for him when he returned."

"I'm sure he'd take a bloody good guess," Celina murmered more to herself than Ermelian, pausing to steal herself, "I _really_ hate to ask this, but it's winter, so this is the only court relationship I really have any opportunity to gossip about… Exactly _what_ is your relationship with Cleon?"

Ermelian blushed again, a pretty colour, and Celina thought what a shame it was that Cleon did not properly appreciate the gesture.

"We're married." Ermelian returned, "You were there. Your mother was even there afterwards, well, outside the door, to make sure we were _properly_ married."

"Yes, but do you talk? Do you think about each other? Is it all you can think about? Do you call each other pet names? Do you flirt in inappropriate places? Does he make you happy… in bed?" Celina added the last two words just to make the younger girl squirm.

"Well, he's been away now for three times longer than we were ever together. Not a good sign for a marriage. But we talked when we were together, I think we were just starting to become friends when I spent that fortnight with him, clearing houses. But, ah, going to bed was always awkward…" Ermelian paused before rushing to say, "He was always very attentive, of course, always very concerned about me." Celina giggled and Ermelian remembered she was discussing the woman's younger brother, before becoming flustered and beginning again on a more appropriate track, "But I don't think we ever flirted. I think we were both aiming to get to that point in a relationship past where it doesn't really matter if you're really head over heels, making the world turn in love, you're just old friends, because we couldn't force ourselves to be in-love."

"That's so sad. You can't live like that, especially with Cleon. Cleon was always the one to be wildly overcommitted to a romance – it's part of the code of chivalry he has treated as law since he found out he was going to be a knight at the age of four, and it's just him. He was so in love with our nursery maid, and not as a mother figure, that he begged mother for a string of her purls, then sent the maid a purl every day until they ran out. I thought mother was going to be furious. She would have skinned me alive and then forced me to collect every single one and return them to her. But she just smiled at him and said he must always stay that sweet. She was softer before father died, though she did decline to loan him any more jewellery, and hence you wear our grandmother's ring."

Ermelian listened with rapt attention to Celina's stories of Cleon as a boy, resolving to attempt a letter to the boy who fell so easily in love rather than the detached accountant of a husband she had been corresponding with over the past few months of winter. The letter she sent was far from perfect, and she felt like she was writing to a perfect stranger, but if the only risk was her embarrassment at a distance of two weeks hard riding, she felt the risk worth any reward.

Dear Cleon,

I should warn you at the beginning of this letter that there are no mentions of the accounts of Kennan, or any report on the running thereof, within for I sent that letter a fortnight ago.

I write because, amongst the ballads we have been listening to around the hearth this winter, Celina has been singing me songs of your boyhood, of a boyhood full of romance and a potential romance I would like to share in.

I am aware that when we were married we were both still in love with other people, and I know that for you that may still be the case and I do not hold it against you. But for me those feelings have faded, indeed they faded as we first strung up friendship together. I lament that you were pulled away to war after so little time at Kennan, for I felt our friendship was deepening daily, though I am thankful that the real has you protecting it on the front.

I came to know you in our month together, and I should write those things now, though I should not mind relearning them on our return.

You see people, not positions, and you give everyone equal credit for the deeds they do. You raise your own positions by working at tasks others may say are beneath you, and find honour in completing those tasks. And you are honourable: you sacrifice your happiness, yourself, for standards of chivalry I have only before heard of in the bardic songs. You are perhaps the strongest man I have met, strength that is needed for farming and for fighting, yet you are gentle as you speak to others, as you play with the children, as you hold me.

And so I am not content to merely continue as your friend, or as duty. You may call me demanding for asking for more, and I shall understand your rejection.

Please write me back when you receive this letter.

Yours,

Ermelian of Kennan


End file.
